


The Life of Hodge Starkweather

by TanteTao



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Gen, Scenes from the past, Trick or Treat: Trick, oneshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 16:16:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12535912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TanteTao/pseuds/TanteTao
Summary: Small insights into Hodge's past





	1. We failed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlterEgon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlterEgon/gifts).



Blood. His face was resting in a pool of it, cooling and congealing on the floor of the Hall. More blood was trickling from his shoulder in warm rivulets down his body to mix with the mess already there. His whole body was one solid ache, his head thrumming and throbbing in time with his hammering pulse.

All around him, battle raged on. He could hear the clanging of blade on blade, the battle cries of Nephilim and Downworlders alike, the howls of werewolves, the wet sounds of weapons striking and opening flesh, the thuds of bodies hitting the ground, the grunts and moans and shrieks of the dying. He could see the dancing colors of warlock magic and smell the metallic tang of blood above all else.

He tried to rise, but his muscles wouldn't obey him. He must have lost quite a bit of blood, judging by the weakness in his limbs. Or maybe he just couldn't believe what was happening. This wasn't what they had planned. The fight should have been over quickly, with minimal losses on their side. Valentine had practically guaranteed that Clave and Downworlders alike would be much too surprised by their attack to really fight back. Kill the Downworlders, get the Mortal Cup and leave. It had sounded so simple in theory.

But it hadn't been simple. Not at all. Somehow, the Clave must have known, for everyone in the Hall of Accords had been ready for battle the moment they attacked. They weren't just facing a few perplexed Downworlders and Nephilim, they were facing an army of shadowhunters geared up for combat and armed to their teeth.

From his position on the floor, Hodge couldn't make out which side was winning. Bodies of Circle members, Clave members and Downworlders alike littered the floor as far as he could see. He tried to rise again, but his legs only gave a small twitch. The next moment, a sharp blade rested against his neck.

"Hands off your weapon or you're dead!" was growled from above. Hodge slowly edged his hand away from his blade, careful not to make any sudden movements. The sounds of battle were slowly fading and he knew what it meant, what it must mean. 'This wasn't supposed to happen', he thought. And then, 'We failed.'


	2. Welcome Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hodge arrives at the New York Institute.

He looked around, his gaze sweeping across the faces of the assembled Nephilim. No smile there, just stony faces and cool, distrustful eyes. The strap of his duffel bag was digging uncomfortably into his shoulder as he walked past the silent fighters, following Robert down the hallway and to a closed door. He felt the hairs on his neck rising from the gazes he was feeling on his back. Robert opened the door and stood beside it, gesturing in a way that was probably supposed to be inviting.

"This is your room."

His voice was devoid of warmth or friendliness and certainly did nothing to make Hodge feel the least bit welcome. The room the door led to was furnished with a bed, a closet, a bookshelf, a desk, and a chair. So this was going to be his new home. Or rather, his prison, he mused. After all, the Clave had made damn sure he wasn't ever going to leave this place again. And the Lightwoods, dear old Robert and Maryse, who had been in the Circle with him, had followed Valentine just the same as he had, would now be his jailors.

Apparently, guilt wasn't just measured by what you'd actually done. No, it was important who you knew and who you could shift blame to. And so while he had gotten cursed, banned from ever returning home to Idris, expelled from any kind of companionship he might have had with any of the other shadowhunters, Maryse and Robert did not only get to stay out of prison and together with their little boy, they got to head the New York Institute. With him in it.

He hadn't seen Maryse yet, and Robert hadn't spoken more than that one sentence to him since his arrival at the Institute. They'd never been friends, not even when they were in the Circle together, but it hurt to have them look at him with the same distrust and coldness as all those other shadowhunters. Those that never followed Valentine.

After a few moments, it was clear that Robert didn't intend to speak again, so Hodge stepped into his new room and shut the door behind himself. He dropped his duffel bag onto the bed and sighed. Already it felt as if the walls of the Institute were starting to close in on him, and he hadn't even been here an hour. Just the thought of spending weeks, months, even years here with nobody to talk to, no way to smell fresh air, no way out… it made him shiver. He crawled onto the bed, sat up against the headboard, pulled his knees to his chest and rested his chin on his knees.

"Welcome home, Hodge." he whispered.


	3. You won't break me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hodge 'spars' with another shadowhunter.

"Aaahh!" He couldn't quite hold back the cry of pain as the tip of the blade sliced across his abdomen, leaving a deep red line behind. It burned, and he could feel blood running down his belly and soak into the front of his pants. His breath came in ragged puffs, sweat was constantly dripping into his eyes and his muscles were screaming for a reprieve. This sparring session had been going on for what seemed like eternity.

Well, 'sparring session'. That's what they called it. He had other names for it, not that anyone cared. He had been told that the Clave and the Lightwoods had found a way for him to be 'useful' to the New York Institute: he was to be a weapons instructor to the next generation of shadowhunters. Of course, they had added, he'd have to train hard to make sure he was good enough to teach other Nephilim. So they kept sending shadowhunters to visit and spar with him.

He didn't think it was a coincidence that every single one of those shadowhunters was older than him, had years of experience in the field and hated his guts because someone they cared about got injured or killed in the Uprising. Not once did he manage to finish one of those so-called sparring sessions without getting injured. The first time one of his opponents broke his arm he went to the infirmary for treatment. By now he had realized that nobody there cared much about whether he was in pain and had made sure he knew all the healing runes and useful herbs.

The burning sensation in the cut got worse. That was never a good sign. They weren't using seraph blades for their fight. His opponent, a Nephilim over six feet tall and built like a brick wall, was wielding two curved knives while he himself was armed with a staff. But a simple knife wound shouldn't have felt like that. Which meant, he realized, that his opponent had probably dipped his blades in some kind of poison. Nothing life-threatening, because that would be frowned upon, no. Probably just something painful, slow and difficult to heal and sure to leave a scar, no matter how many iratzes he used on it. Damn.

He adjusted the grip on his staff and met his opponents' eyes. He saw malice there and glee and the expectation that the pain and blood loss and exhaustion would make him drop soon. So he steeled himself against all that, grit his teeth and attacked again, his whole posture and expression telegraphing one thing to his opponent and anyone else present:

"You won't break me!"


	4. Longing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hodge longs for things he can never have.

They were driving him mad. And he couldn't say anything, do anything against it because they weren't breaking any rules. There was no law saying you couldn't hug or kiss your husband in the hallway or when parting before a mission. There was no rule against brushing against your husband in passing or squeezing his shoulder while looking deeply into his eyes or smiling at him so brightly it lit up the whole room. It wasn't forbidden to hold whole conversations just by looking into each other's eyes.

Robert and Maryse were very reserved and disciplined in public, so he'd never had to witness this kind of behavior. Nobody at the Institute had ever been overly demonstrative in their affections. But now this couple was visiting for a few weeks from the Institute in Paris and they quite obviously had no qualms whatsoever about public displays of affection. And it hurt. Oh how it hurt.

Rationally, he'd known from the moment he was cursed that his future held no intimate relationships of any kind. And in the years following his arrival at the Institute, he had learned to accept that there would not be any other kinds of relationships with adults for him either. He was never included in any activity where he or his expertise wasn't strictly needed. Nobody spoke to him if there was no need. Nobody hugged him or clapped him on the shoulder or patted his back. Nobody asked how he felt or what he wanted.

But nobody had shown him in quite so much detail what he had never been allowed to experience and would never, ever have. Nothing he had or could give would be enough to make another shadowhunter want to be with him, confide in him, listen to him, touch him. _Love him._ But he longed for it with all his heart and soul, and it hurt.


End file.
